Dirty Sexy Balcony Scene
by ubermooo
Summary: Since Cassandra Clare hasn't done this, I thought I might as well. Presenting... my favorite couple in all of literature, on a balcony, from Will's POV


"I'm all right," she breathes out shakily, clinging to the balistrade as if it were the deck of a tossing ship. Her shoulders shudder as she fights to catch her breath, and when she raises her face to me I can see that she is herself again. My Tessa. It's the most remarkable thing, watching her return to her true form again; as always it gives me a sense of warm relief, like returning home after a long journey. Like discovering a hidden gem you'd known was there all along.

This version of Tessa is wide-eyed and dazed, but I can tell she'll be all right. "I just—I don't know what happened. That's never happened to me before, losing the Change without noticing like that. It must have been the surprise of it all." She's rambling now as her jangled nerves begin to settle down. "They're married, did you know that? Nate and Jessamine. Married. Nate was never the marrying sort. And he doesn't love her. I can tell. He doesn't love anyone but himself. He never has."

The look on her face now is one I've seen before – a fallen, heartbroken expression of sadness and betrayal. Disappointment.

"Tess," I murmur. I don't remember moving closer to her, but somehow I've ended up only a few inches away and from here I can smell the light scent rising off her bare skin in the chill of the evening. It does strange things to my stomach, which is already behaving strangely. Nerves, I tell myself. The adrenaline of a mission completed. Wait, have we completed it? I can't remember, and right now I don't really care.

I have a sudden urge to take her into my arms and hold her, to calm and comfort her until her quaking stops, but stop myself out of habit. But the night has taken on a dreamy quality and I'm feeling so warm and light that suddenly I can't remember exactly why it's a habit.

She blinks for a moment and turns away, apologizing, and as I can't pinpoint a specific reason not to, I reach to gently turn her face toward me again. "There's nothing to be sorry about. You were brilliant in there, Tessa. Not a step out of place." Her cheek under my fingertips is soft and petal-smooth; the feeling brings black a flood of memories: her bare wrist under my thumb, my hand against her neck, her startled breath in my mouth-

I keep talking to keep myself from getting lost in them. "You did love your brother once, didn't you? I could see your face as he was speaking to you, and I wanted to kill him for breaking your heart."

I can see her hesitation, and there's that look again – just a flicker – it's like a raw wound, still bleeding, and instantly she schools her features to hide it. Still it's like a knife in my gut – I know Nathaniel wasn't the first one to inflict that wound in her. I was.

"Some part of me misses him as—as you miss your sister. Even though I know what he is, I miss the brother I thought I had. He was my only family."

I have to make this better. Just now I can't recall my reasons for having hurt her; all I know is that I must set it right. "The Institute is your family now." I'm still stroking her cheek with one thumb and trying to put all the warmth and conviction into my eyes that I can: _you are wanted. You are one of us. I will always be here for you._

She looks slightly confused, dazed with heavy eyelids blinking against flushed cheekbones. "We should go back inside," she breathes without pulling away from me. "We have only a little time—" then as she does try to take a step, she stumbles over Jessamine's heeled shoes. I catch her in both arms, my reflexes surprisingly sluggish, but I've got her. And now her arms are creeping up over my shoulders and around my neck and I think I'm in heaven as she turns her face into my neck and breathes a shaky sigh. The shock of seeing Nathaniel must have had more of an effect on her than I thought. Not that I'm complaining.

My heart swells in me and and know that now is the time to tell her. I can't keep this to myself anymore. "Tess- Tess, look at me."

She straightens hesitantly. A single curling lock of hair has drifted away from the intricate weave of her hair, taunting me, and before I know what I'm doing I pull the pins from her hair. They're in my way, and again I can't think of a reason not to.

Pins gone, I can finally – finally! - bury my hands in her rich curls. Her hands still grip my neck and shoulders and they tighten slightly as her eyelids flutter with pleasure. _Yes_, I think. _Better already._ She's reacted this way to me before, and while I distantly remember having hurt her, I know down to my bones that I can just as well give her pleasure.

"My Tessa," I whisper, and she's blinking at me in wonder. This is when I realize I'm still wearing the silly mask. Too much distance between us. I unlatch her hands from behind my head, noticing her gloves are also in my way, and before long both mask and gloves are no longer a problem.

Her gray eyes are luminous in the evening dim, and although she's still dazed, I know she sees me, really sees _me. _She's reaching for my face, but that won't do – I have to make her understand. After all this time, that's all I want.

"No, let me touch you first." I reach for her. "I have wanted . . ."

My fingers trace the smooth lines of her face and I'm engrossed, mesmerized, wondering why on earth I've never done this before. I'm savoring each inch of silken skin between her mouth and throat when I encounter another obstacle – some kind of ribbon around her neck, also gone – and I notice that her generous bosom rises and falls rapidly in response to my touch. The hitch in her breath, the goosebumps that raise there in response to my touch, are more than I can handle. Swiftly, I clutch her to me and bow my head to rest my face alongside hers.

"I have wanted to do this every moment of every hour of every day that I have been with you since the day I met you," I breathe against her neck, realizing only now that I've just said that aloud and not in my head. But still she doesn't refuse me, her head tilts warmly against mine and I can feel more than hear her sigh of contentment. Maybe she does understand after all. "You must know. Don't you?" I raise my head to search her face, her eyes for some sign of what I'm looking for: trust. Certainty. Forgiveness. But I find only bewilderment.

"Know what?" Is all she says.

Very well – if I can't tell her, I'll show her.

I bend to kiss her – not like before, but the way I have a hundred times in my head during dark, regret-filled nights. The way the worshipful Lancelot would have kissed his Gweneviere, like brush strokes on a master's canvas, like the laden words of a beloved poem, I kiss her the way I wish I had the first time. Warm and slow, soft and deep. My heart races and I know my hands are shaking as they clutch her back, her hair, her neck, but I don't care. I want her to know.

Again, her arms wind around my neck and I can feel the trembling in her slender body. _She does want me, _I think in wonderment. All the times I've imagined myself holding her, it's never been as good as this – my imaginary Tessa never wove her fingers into my hair or melted instantly against me in pure, perfect willingness and acceptance.

"Will," she murmurs against my mouth, and the brush of lips and breath and lemonade scent are almost more than I can handle. "Will, you need not be so careful. I will not break."

"Tessa," I groan, indignant. I'm painting a masterpiece here. But then there's a playful nip at my lower lip and there are no more thoughts. No more poetry or brush strokes or any such nonsense, only the taste and softness of her open mouth, willing and full of desire. All I can think is that she's too far away, even though I've gathered her against me with all my strength, the hardness of her corset digging into my ribs and the softness of her bosom rising and falling to echo my own rapid breaths. I've been told not to kiss a woman this way unless I want her to swoon, but Tessa answers my strength with her own, pulling me toward her until I'm worried I'll lose my balance.

We bump into the stone railing and I tilt her backward over it – I've always wanted to do this – taking her weight in my arms and supporting her head in one hand, relishing the cascade of chestnut curls between my fingers. She gives a soft moan of surprise and kisses me back even harder. Her body molds easily to mine and I can't help but wish we were at home at the institute, someplace quiet and warm with something softer than a stone balcony to support us in this moment of discovery.

Behind us there is the sound of a door opening, then a spill of voices and music from the ballroom. Someone says something there in the doorway, but I'm not listening. Thankfully, whoever it is goes back to what they were doing, but Tessa breaks away with a gasp: "Oh my heavens. How humiliating-"

"I don't care," I murmur hotly, pulling her back into my arms and burying my face in the graceful slope of her neck and bare shoulder. She offers no further resistance, so hungrily I kiss her again. "Tess—"

"You keep saying my name," she whispers, still not resisting, but I can tell she's distracted.

"I love your name. I love the sound of it." I don't bother to pull away from her mouth as I speak, and she gives another gasp of pleasure. And now for the first time, I think it might actually be possible. Somehow, despite the hurt, despite the lies, she must love me. She must understand. Mustn't she? "I have to ask you something. I have to know—"

"So there you two are." Another voice, familiar this time, but still unwelcome. "And quite a spectacular display you're making, if I do say so."


End file.
